Look how the blue-eyed violets glance love to one another.

Violet has the shortest wavelength of the spectrum. Behind it, the invisible ultraviolet. Roses are Red, Violets are Blue. Poor violet, violated for a rhyme.

Long as there’s a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There’s a flower that shall be mine, ‘Tis the little Celandine.

China tea, the scent of hyacinths, wood fires and bowls of violets – that is my mental picture of an agreeable February afternoon.

They’ve drunk everything in the house, including a pitcher of African violet plant food I’d just mixed up and was stupid enough to leave on the counter.” Tremaine punched Eddie in the shoulder. “I told you it tasted weird.” Eddie shrugged. “Tasted okay to me.

If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet.

I was left alone there in the company of the orchids, roses and violets, which, like people waiting beside you who do not know you, preserved a silence which their individuality as living things made all the more striking, and warmed themselves in the heat of a glowing coal fire.

The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of it’s scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.

We all have something in our past that is gripping us, and ‘Violet’ is very much about leaving those things behind.

The summer breeze was blowing on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden

A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long, That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever.

If only Uncle Monty knew what we know,” Violet said, “and Stephano knew that he knew what we know. But Uncle Monty doesn’t know what we know, and Stephano knows that he doesn’t know what we know.” “I know,” Klause said. “I know you know,” Violet said

If a little kid ever asks you just why the sky is blue, you look him or her right in the eye and say, ‘It’s because of quantum effects involving Rayleigh scattering combined with a lack of violet photon receptors in our retinae.’

I think the King is but a man as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me.

Through the window I can see Rooks above the cherry-tree, Sparrows in the violet bed, Bramble-bush and bumble-bee, And old red bracken smoulders still Among boulders on the hill, Far too bright to seem quite dead. But old Death, who can’t forget, Waits his time and watches yet, Waits and watches by the door.

The Mediterranean has the color of mackerel, changeable I mean. You don’t always know if it is green or violet, you can’t even say it’s blue, because the next moment the changing reflection has taken on a tint of rose or gray.

It were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its color and odor, as seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a poet. The plant must spring again from its seed, or it will bear no flower — and this is the burthen of the curse of Babel.

What is green? The grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? Clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!

What a pity flowers can utter no sound!-A singing rose, a whispering violet, a murmuring honeysuckle … oh, what a rare and exquisite miracle would these be!

My only surprise when I saw Thanos up on the screen was how violet he was. I always saw his exposed hide as being more grayish violet.

The humble soul is like the violet, which grows low, hangs the head downward, and hides itself with its own leaves.

The violets whisper from the shade Which their own leaves have made: Men scent our fragrance on the air, Yet take no heed Of humble lessons we would read.

I’ve got it all in here ultra violets, flying saucers, strawberry bootlace come on get involved.

So then the year is repeating its old story again. We are come once more, thank God! to its most charming chapter. The violets and the Mayflowers are as its inscriptions or vignettes. It always makes a pleasant impression on us, when we open again at these pages of the book of life.

A mourning dove‘s beauty is an understated one: the colors of its feathers ranging through various shades of gray and drab violet, often with a striking splash of turquoise around the eyes.

She bathed with roses red,
And violets blew.
And all the sweetest flowres
That in the forrest grew.

I always have at least four different lip products in my purse – I’m obsessed! I’m into L’Oreal Infallible Le Rouge ‘Unending Kiss.’ It’s a very soft and natural pink color. I’ve also discovered Burt’s Bees tinted lip balm in ‘sweet violet.’ I like it because it’s very natural and feels good on my lips.

Daniel‘s face– the way it had been bathed in violet light when he’d carried her home this morning– appeared before her eyes. His gleaming golden hair. His tender, knowing eyes. The way one touch of his lips transported her far away from any darkness. For him, she‘d suffer all of this, and more.

Nature is sanative, refining, elevating. How cunningly she hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses, and violets, and morning dew! Every inch of the mountains is scarred by unimaginable convulsions, yet the new day is purple with the bloom of youth and love.

Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of spring. Still, still that lovely ghost appears, Too fair, too pure, to bid depart; No riper love of later years Can steal its beauty from the heart.

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

But this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like some one in a book.

Reformed rakes make the best husbands,”Violet said. “Rubbish and you know it.” -Anthony to Violet

What a joy is there in a good book, writ by some great master of thought, who breaks into beauty as in summer the meadow into grass and dandelions and violets, with geraniums and manifold sweetness.

Jealous?’ Luce asked. They were alone now. She threw her arms around his broad shoulders and looked deep into his violet eyes. ‘Why would you be jealous?’ ‘Because,’ he said, rubbing his hands across her back. ‘Your dance card is full. For all eternity.

Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward; Rains fall, suns rise and set; Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.

In my previous life I was a civil attorney. At one point I truly believed that was what I wanted to be- but that was before I’d been handed a fistful of crushed violets from a toddler. Before I understood that the smile of a child is a tattoo: indelible art.

For a moment he could have sworn he smelled violets, which was very peculiar, since he had no idea what violets smelled like, except somehow he knew they smelled just like Lady Emma.

The learned compute that seven hundred and seven millions of millions of vibrations have to penetrate the eye before the eye can distinguish the tints of a violet.

Can anything compare to the sight of the first yellow violets blooming along a woodland path? These most fragile of plants are yet hardy enough to bloom when nights are still frosty and snow still lingers in the ravines.

Violets are God’s apology for February.

His hands skim my bare arms. “Just bounce a little when you walk,” he says, kissing my forehead, “and pretend you’re afraid of their guns” —another kiss between my eyebrows— “and act like the shrinking violet you could never be ”—a kiss on my cheek— “and you’ll be fine.

O beautiful white land,
olives and wild anemone and violet
mingled among the shale,
and purple wings
of little winter-butterflies
say, here Psyche, the soul, lies.

I softly sink into the bath of sleep: With eyelids shut, I see around me close The mottled, violet vapors of the deep, That wraps me in repose.

Violet is my everything. She’s the sweetest little girl in the whole world. She inspires me. I’m glad that we have such a close relationship because she makes me laugh and shows me how great life can be every day.

Humility is the softening shadow before the stature of Excellence, And lieth lowly on the ground, beloved and lovely as the violet.

And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious; violet and selfish; miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.

And pray, who are you?”
Said the Violet blue
To the Bee, with surprise,
At his wonderful size,
In her eyeglass of dew.
“I, madam,” quoth he,
“Am a publican Bee,
Collecting the tax
Of honey and wax.
Have you nothing for me?

I don’t like your tone,” was Violet’s standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument.

The learned compute that seven hundred and seven millions of millions of vibrations have penetrated the eye before the eye can distinguish the tints of a violet. What philosophy can calculate the vibrations of the heart before it can distinguish the colours of love?

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

The grape Hyacinth is the favorite spring flower of my garden – but no! I though a minute ago the Scilla was! and what place has the Violet? the Flower de Luce? I cannot decide, but this I know – it is some blue flower.

You can’t be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.

Light can be gentle, dangerous, dreamlike, bare, living, dead, misty, clear, hot, dark, violet, springlike, falling, straight, sensual, limited, poisonous, calm and soft.

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs, where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburmum on his birthday,-
The tree is living yet.

The nightingale appear‘d the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.

Last time I was in London, I visited Number 5, Bruton Street, which is the address I gave to Violet Bridgerton, the matriarch of the Bridgerton clan in my novels. It was a bit disconcerting to learn that it’s actually a pub.

Don’t order any black things. Rejoice in his memory; and be radiant: leave grief to the children. Wear violet and purple. Be patient with the poor people who will snivel: they don’t know; and they think they will live for ever, which makes death a division instead of a bond.

That which above all other yields the sweetest smell in the air is the violet.

We may pass violets looking for roses. We may pass contentment looking for victory.

I wasn’t a shrinking violet when I joined Fox News. I didn’t have any power at Fox – I had no power in the TV industry – but I had been a lawyer for nine years who had practiced employment law.

Violet! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years?

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.

Even if I am just sleeping with her or just watching cartoons in bed, I know Violet values that. I try to make the most of every moment and just make it special with her, because its what matters to me most.

Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

As a mom, that’s at the forefront of everything in my mind, so I’m always trying to balance, whether it’s bringing Violet to work or, the second I am done working, getting home to her.

I am very chill and comfortable in my own skin, and because of this, I believe it is exactly what is needed when you are with a strong woman. My wife is no shrinking violet in her own right. As a result, you have to know when to push, when to pull, when to let it go, and when to stand firm.

I’m glad that our music motivates people to exercise. If I had to pick just one song to run to, it would be ‘Violet’ by Hole. It makes me want to run.

I want Violet to be proud of every little thing that is her – her hair, her body. We’re all different, and from early on, I’ve always said she has a very confident personality, and I want her to maintain that.

Starry, starry night, flaming flowers that brightly blaze, swirling clouds in violet haze reflect Vincent’s eyes of china blue.

Violet Chachki – I’m a huge fan of her work.

I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers,’ said Priscilla. ‘Then your soul is a golden narcissus,’ said Anne, ‘and Diana‘s is like a red, red rose. Jane‘s is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet.’ ‘And our own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart,’ finished Priscilla.

In our film profession you may have Gable’s looks, Tracy‘s art, Marlene’s legs or Liz’s violet eyes, but they don’t mean a thing without that swinging thing called courage.

In a corner of the churchyard grew a plantation of white violets, enormously plump and prosperous-looking. … I saw the dead stretched out under me in the earth, feeding these flowers with a thin milk drawn from their bones.

Oh, I love red. I’m very loyal to my colors. I love violet.

Violet is the most soothing, tranquilizing and cooling color vibration. It encourages the healing of unbalanced mental conditions in people who are overly nervous or high-strung. Foods of the violet vibration are: purple broccoli, beetroot and purple grapes.

My name itself is extremely campy. Violet Chachki literally translates to purple doodad.

Rays were blazing through the atmosphere of the earth, the horizon became bright orange, gradually passing into all the colors of the rainbow: from light blue to dark blue, to violet and then to black. What an indescribable gamut of colors! Just like the paintings of the artist Nicholas Roerich.

The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks
A scarlet rain; the yellow violet
Sat in the chariot of its leaves, the phlox
Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet,
And all the streams with vernal-scented reed
Were fringed, and streaky bellow of miskodeed.

Oh! that we two were Maying
Down the stream of the soft spring breeze;
Like children with violets playing,
In the shade of the whispering trees.

What if life could be this way? Only the happy parts, none of the terrible, not even the mildly unpleasant. What if we could just cut out the bad and keep the good? This is what I want to do with Violet – give her only the good, keep away the bad, so that good is all we ever have around us.

The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground; They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.

Many books belong to sunshine, and should be read out of doors. Clover, violets, and hedge roses breathe from their leaves; they are most lovable in cool lanes, along field paths, or upon stiles overhung by hawthorn, while the blackbird pipes, and the nightingale bathes its brown feathers in the twilight copse.

Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m schizophrenic, and so am I.

Each violet peeps from its dwelling to gaze at the bright stars above.

Here eglantine embalm’d the air, Hawthorne and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and nightshade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Group‘d their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain.

Next to my mom, I’m actually a shrinking violet.

Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins?

The Proustian aquarium: grotesque and gorgeous fish drifting with languid fins through a subaqueous medium of pale violet polluted ink.

Bitter love, a violet with it’s crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?

At the end of the day, I’m Violet’s mom, and I want the best for her.

My palette contains a warm and cool of each primary, plus four modifiers: Yellow Ochre, Burnt Sienna, Blue-Violet and Phthalo Yellow-Green just mix as I go for each painting.

Our cheer goes back to them, the valiant dead! Laurels and roses on their graves to-day, lilies and laurels over them we lay, and violets o’er each unforgotten head.

If we were to imagine an orange on the blue side or green on the red side or violet on the yellow side, it would give us the same impression as a north wind coming from the southwest.

Early violets blue and white Dying for their love of light.

Blue is for cruel bargains; green is for daring what you oughtn’t; violet is for brute force. I will say to you: Coral coaxes; pink insists; red compels. I will say to you: You are dear to me as attar of roses. Please do not get eaten.

Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart; I breathe at this hour the fragrance of the lilacs, the violets, and the roses, as at twenty years ago.

Violet, the Dowager Countess: ‘I have plenty of friends I don’t like.

I’m not tough. I’m just not a retiring violet when it comes to airing my opinions.

Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel for the first violet which March brings us, the fragrant pledge of the new-fledged year.

The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.

Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins? Distinctly we see the difference of the colors, but where exactly does the one first blendingly enter into the other? So with sanity and insanity.

That strain again! It had a dying fall:
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
‘Tis not so sweet as it was before.

How do you do?” said Violet. “How do you do?” said Klaus. “Odo yow!” said Sunny.

I am no shrinking violet.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o’ the morn.

I didn’t start sweating until I had children. That was one of the first things I realized when my daughter Violet was born – I started getting wicked BO. You know there’s a difference between basketball BO and stress BO? This was definitely stress BO. Like, new dad BO.

Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden‘s breast,
Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
Under the willow.

I’m confident that I’m as intelligent as many people, but I know that I’m not as intelligent as some. So in the presence of hyperintelligent people, I’m a shrinking violet because I don’t want to look like a fool. I know a little about a lot and a lot about a little.

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affectations glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

When April steps aside for May,
Like diamonds all the rain-drops glisten;
Fresh violets open every day:
To some new bird each hour we listen.

How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
I’m sick of this poem,
you probably are too.

Violet, the Dowager Countess: “I mean, one way or another, everyone goes down the aisle with half the story hidden.

Roses are reddish
Violets are bluish
If it weren’t for Christmas
We’d all be Jewish.

We are violets blue, For our sweetness found Careless in the mossy shades, Looking on the ground. Love’s dropp’d eyelids and a kiss,– Such our breath and blueness is.

I feel like you have to tell people who you are, but you don’t have to be disrespectful about it. But you also don’t have to be a shrinking violet.

Big doesn’t necessarily mean better. Sunflowers aren’t better than violets.

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander’s margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.

Fast fading violets cover‘d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Are you ready?” Klaus asked finally. “No,” Sunny answered. “Me neither,” Violet said, “but if we wait until we’re ready we’ll be waiting for the rest of our lives, Let’s go.

In our absence, the violet early evening light pours in the bay window, filling the still room like water poured into a glass. The glass is delicate. The thin, tight surface of the liquid light trembles. But it does not break. Time does not pass. Not yet.

Spring is the fresh green of young corn and the pink blush of blossoms. Autumn contrasts the yellowed foilage with violet hues. Winter is the white of snow against its black forms … Summer is the contrast of blues and the golden bronze of the corn.

What child has ever known the country and has not twined hundreds of fragrant wreaths with the yellow shining cowslip and the more frail and delicate violet – mingling here and there green leaves culled from the odorous eglantine, or, as we more commonly call it, sweetbriar.

The tender violet bent in smiles To elves that sported nigh, Tossing the drops of fragrant dew To scent the evening sky.

Lay her i’ the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!